IN MID-JUNE, SEVERAL WEEKS after Marie’s arrival in Poitou, Eleanor was in the solar of the Maubergeonne Tower going over her accounts with her secretary-chaplain, Peter of Blois, when a courier brought her a letter from Henry.
“Long overdue. I suppose I should be grateful he writes at all.” She handed the sealed parchment to her secretary. “Open it, if you please, and read it aloud.”
Under the soft light of ivory tapers, Peter broke the scarlet seal, scanned the letter, then handed it to her.
“Best read it for yourself, madam.”
Brusque and to the point, Henry reprimanded her for having acted precipitously without his permission. Her roles as Richard’s mother and the acting duchess did not give her the right to allow oaths to be sworn or ceremonies performed that would firmly establish Richard as the next duke of Aquitaine. He, Henry, was still the ruling authority and nothing of consequence could or should be undertaken without consulting him. Heshould have been present at any official function, just as he was when Harry was crowned. He then demanded the treasury send him funds, as he was running short, adding that it was a matter of some urgency.
Eleanor’s cheeks burned when she finished, and she flung the parchment into the secretary’s lap. “This is an outrage. All Europe knows Richard will be the next duke, it is a matter of record. Henry himself signed the treaty and Richard has already sworn homage to King Louis.”
“Written in a foul temper, madam. I recognize the signs,” said Peter of Blois, who had been a royal clerk in Henry’s household before coming to Poitiers. “Not surprising, considering that matters progress badly in Ireland, the king of Scots has taken advantage of His Grace’s absence to make forays into England, and his vassals on the Continent are once again starting to rebel.” He laid the letter carefully on the oak table. “And until King Henry does penance, the threat of excommunication still hangs over his head. No indeed, His Grace cannot be having an easy time of it.”
“And whose fault is that? So long as the four murderers remain unpunished, he still has blood on his hands.” She drummed impatient fingers on the table. “This is the second request for moneys. Why must Aquitaine be bled dry in order to support a losing battle against the Irish chieftains?”
“You will have to send the duke something, madam,” said Peter gravely. “The grape harvest looks to be exceptionally fine this year, the crops thrive, and revenues are up. Rest assured King Henry knows how well the duchy fares, from the number of herring catches in Bayonne to how many barrels of wine were shipped from Bordeaux.”
“I do not care what he knows. I have no intention of sending him a single coin.” She tossed her head. As Peter started to protest she held up her hand to signify an end to the discussion. With an eye on her attendant ladies sewing in a far corner of the solar, Eleanor said, “I wish to write several letters to—well, you know whom I mean.”
Clearly perturbed, the secretary gathered up various parchments scattered over the table. For an instant their gaze met and Peter responded in a whisper, “I advise caution, madam. Suppose this secret correspondence with France and Flanders is discovered?”
“‘Private’ is more apt. After all, Louis of France is overlord of Aquitaine. Three of his daughters are with me. It is my duty to keep him informed of Marguerite’s and Alais’s progress, and how Marie fares. Count Philip of Flanders is married to my niece, Isabella, and it is only natural I would write to him. Where is the harm?”
“Only you can answer that, madam.” The secretary rose to his feet. “Some might wonder at the purpose behind such letters. Duke Henry among them.”
“If, by chance, a letter should fall into the wrong hands it would contain nothing of an incriminating nature, as you know well enough.”
Peter spread his hands. “What of any sent without my knowledge?”
Eleanor felt her cheeks flush. How did he know of these? “I am more concerned over your concern, Master Peter, than I am over any letters.” She rose and walked him to the door of the solar. “King Henry sent you to Aquitaine some time ago. On loan, he said. But you are free to return to England”—she fixed him with a steely gaze—“if you suffer from divided loyalties.”
“I suffer no more than you do, madam.”
Impertinent clerk! In truth, her loyalties were becoming clearer all the time. And there was nothing sinister in her private communications with King Louis and the count of Flanders, she reminded herself. Such letters were merely part of her general decision to make connections and create allies. These were needed more than ever in view of Henry’s incomprehensible behavior, which continued to sow the seeds of discord in his lands. It would be known by those who mattered that the duchess of Aquitaine did not support her husband’s actions—or failure to act, rather. The Plantagenet empire seemed, for the first time, to be facing an uncertain future; whatever happened, she intended to be prepared.
In the days that followed, Eleanor put all thoughts of Henry from her mind, if not from her heart, and turned her attention to her newfound daughter. She was amazed to discover that Marie, now in her twenty-sixth year, should entertain so many ideas that closely resembled her own, considering they had not seen each other since her daughter was seven years old. Not only was she a patroness of the arts and a devotee of the gai saber at her court in Champagne, Marie had a gift for telling stories and composing songs, was an enthusiastic follower of chivalry, and devoured everything written on the noble deeds of King Arthur.
It was to this like-minded daughter that Eleanor confided her most cherished dream of making Poitiers the center for all that was cultured, civilized, and refined. She had already started on this project by bringing back old customs fallen into disuse for many years: traditional fairs, where troubadours played and mummers performed, where produce, leather goods, and ivory carvings were sold and where different wines could be tasted, were once again held regularly, and Harry and Richard had persuaded her to revive tourneys.
“I have made it known that my gates are always open to troubadours, jongleurs, storytellers, and poets of every estate and country,” Eleanor said as she strolled with her daughter in the rose garden behind the ducal palace. “They are already starting to attend my court, along with noble ladies and knights who share similar interests.”
“The young knights can be a problem. Unless they are also troubadours like Bertran de Born, most of them are uncivilized and require education, at least in regard to women,” Marie responded. “Certainly in Champagne they behave boorishly and create enormous disorder.”
Eleanor seated herself on a stone bench. “Also in Aquitaine. And I have long pondered how to curb the unruly behavior of these brash knights.”
Marie sat down beside her. “Such young men are like undisciplined children who need to be taught manners, and a proper way to conduct themselves. They pay lip-service to chivalry but not in feminine company.”
“Perhaps if there were a specific code of behavior for them to follow, similar to the rules which govern the lists,” Eleanor replied. “Written down in specific detail so one can refer to them easily.”
“How clever you are, Maman.” Marie clapped her hands in delight. “What a wonderful opportunity to create something new and unique. I feel sure that the Holy Virgin, may her light shine forever, will approve our efforts in that direction.”
Eleanor looked at her daughter in affectionate amusement, having noted how frequently the Virgin agreed with what Marie herself wanted. Our Lady was no longer just the formal queen of heaven as she had been in her own day, Eleanor realized, but now more closely resembled a benign and indulgent mother or elder sister whose main purpose was to grant favors and bestow approval. In truth, Marie’s intimate relationship with the Virgin reflected a growing and welcome change. What a relief and a joy to see the power and glory of the Holy Mother affecting attitudes toward women in general and slowly gaining precedence over the old view that they were only instruments of the devil. This new concept, some called it the Cult of Mary, had long influenced the gai saber . . . Eleanor suddenly sat up straighter.
“We will borrow from the troubadours,” she said in growing excitement. “They exalt their lady of the moment, and place her on a pedestal where she can adorn and inspire.” She thought for a moment. “Our code will not only civilize men but enhance the power of women. We dictate what men can or cannot do. This code will be on our terms.”
“Oh yes! To show that women can be on an equal footing with men.”
“But women are not equal to men, ma petite.” Eleanor smiled at her daughter. “We are superior.”
Over the next few weeks Eleanor and Marie began the process of codifying a system of courtoisie that would influence male behavior. Marie had brought with her from Champagne her chaplain, Andreas Capellanus, who was called upon to set down in coherent fashion what Marie jestingly called “the rules of love.” The chaplain, whatever his private reservations about such a heretical notion, dutifully set down these rules in scholarly Latin phrases. He modeled the style on Ovid’s Art of Loving, but the content reflected feminine desires. Women were dominant and men their pupils who must be carefully instructed until they became suitable partners for their ladies.
When the work was completed, Eleanor was curious to see how it would be received. To that end she invited to Poitiers three women of like mind and similar sensibilities. All were intelligent and sophisticated, high-spirited by nature, interested in the gai saber, and enthusiastic followers of chivalry.
There was her niece, Isabella, the countess of Flanders; also the worldly Countess Ermengarde, whose southern province of Narbonne bordered on Toulouse. She had outlived two husbands, commanded her own army, and was the only woman Louis of France allowed to act as her own magistrate. Eleanor had included, as well, an unmarried half sister of Henry’s, of whom he was very fond. She was a misbegotten daughter of his late father, the count of Anjou, and was known as Emma of Anjou. Spirited and independent of mind, she and Eleanor had grown attached over the years.
One hot afternoon in July, Eleanor and her guests sat in the garden outside the Maubergeonne Tower sipping goblets of wine and nibbling on honeyed almonds.
“You really believe you can codify a system of courtly love to influence the behavior of men?” The countess of Narbonne, raven-haired and voluptuous, looked skeptical.
“There is little to lose by making the attempt,” Eleanor said.
“Except the consequences of attracting too much attention,” replied Isabella, daughter of Eleanor’s late sister and wife to Count Philip of Flanders. “How will you set about it?”
“We will hold courts and invite participants. Courts of love, we may call them officially.” Eleanor laughed. “What form these will take is still being considered, but we might debate certain issues related to our code. All suggestions are welcome.”
“Courts of love? Now, that is an interesting idea.” The countess of Narbonne rolled languid green eyes.
“But once these courts become well known, how will they be received outside of Aquitaine?” The countess of Flanders’s round freckled face wore a troubled expression.
Marie, dressed as usual in the Virgin’s colors of blue and white, looked surprised. “In the same spirit in which we hold them, Cousin. Our aim is a noble one.”
“At worst these courts might be considered a foolish female pastime,” Eleanor added as she sipped her wine. “But all we desire is to enlighten and civilize. Who will feel threatened by this?”
The countess of Narbonne gave Eleanor an appraising glance. “Come, madam, you cannot be so naïve.”
“What do you mean?”
“What Ermengarde means, Isabella, is that we may expect to hear the rumble of male disapproval when it becomes known that a group of women gather together to codify a system of love that glorifies the female,” said Emma of Anjou. Henry’s younger half sister, whose hands were never idle—today she embroidered an altar cloth—had a brisk no-nonsense air about her, totally at variance with her limpid blue eyes and a head of red-gold curls presently hidden by a white coif. “Hardly a reason not to go forward, however,” Emma added.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, my dear. The disapproval of men has never been a barrier to women of spirit.” Ermengarde gave everyone a knowing smile. “Hurdles add such a challenge, don’t you think?”
In her youth the countess had indulged in numerous liaisons, even while her husbands were alive, and perhaps she was still amusing herself. But Eleanor was sure that neither Marie nor Isabella, both chaste and high-minded, were aware of this, as Ermengarde had always been sufficiently discreet. She was far better known for her willingness to make war on any male neighbor who aroused her animosity, participating in sieges and commanding troops with masculine vigor. Altogether a most remarkable woman.
“Why don’t you read us a sample of the code, Marie?” Eleanor asked.
“We have officially called this the ‘Treatise on Love and the Remedies of Love, practical rules a knight must remember when he deals with a lady.’” Marie read aloud from a sheaf of parchments she held in her lap. “‘Thou must be obedient in all things to the commands of ladies. Thou must always try to ally thyself to the service of love. Thou shalt be in all things polite and courteous. Thou shalt not exceed the desires of thy lover. At all cost thou must avoid lies. Love easily obtained is of little value; difficulty in obtaining it makes it precious.” She looked up. “Of course, these are not polished as yet but what do you think thus far?”
Ermengarde of Narbonne smiled. “I am in agreement. It has always been my belief that a lover should live in submission to the woman he loves and do only what pleases her.” She paused. “But I would add something like: He who does not feel jealous is not capable of loving, and also a word about love either declining or growing.”
Marie looked doubtful. “We do not refer specifically to lovers, madam. The knight can be the lady’s gallant and worship her as an idol, without ever touching her, but he must accept whatever pain she inflicts with joy and patience.” Her face turned pink. “After all, our aspirations are to teach men how to respect and revere women. In our code, seduction is not the goal.”
Isabella of Flanders nodded vigorously. “Indeed.”
The countess gave a throaty laugh and waved a lazy hand. “My dears, what other goal—what other comparable goal—is there? What this code accomplishes, Marie, is to strew the path with boulders and set dragons to guard the chamber door. And even if the gallant knight survives all these hazards and gains entry, in the end it is the lady who makes the final choice.” The countess paused. “And that is what matters, whether she decides to remain on her pedestal or step down. The gift lies totally in our keeping.”
A long sigh passed among the four women as they exchanged a look of wordless understanding.
So it began. The golden time, the days of pure enchantment. Eleanor could not remember a happier period. It was not happiness of the kind she had known when she and Henry were so ecstatically in love, still building their empire, and she was bearing him her bevy of children. That kind of joy came only once in a lifetime. No, this was joy of a different nature but, in its own way, infinitely satisfying and rewarding.
Was it only her imagination, Eleanor wondered, or had the heavens truly provided an endless procession of sunlit mornings without a cloud in the blazing blue sky? Surely hundreds of birds trilled in the gardens and over the red roofs of the city; the bells of every church, abbey, and monastery rang out hours and hours of pleasure. Under starry skies the nights were so heavily scented with lilac that one felt drunk with the sweetness. Eleanor had never before shared so many of her thoughts and dreams in the scintillating company of compatible women, and the blending of viewpoints, the unfolding of intimacy, was a revelation.
One day in late August, Eleanor and Marie presided together over a court of love that was in session. It was a warm afternoon and about thirty ladies attended, as well as courtiers and knights and troubadours. Marie and Eleanor sat in the garden on a stone bench lined with silken cushions while the soft Poitevin breeze rustled the chaplets of roses and daisies twined about their heads. The subject under debate was: “Can true love exist between married people?”
Eleanor looked at her daughter. “Let the case be tried before you this afternoon.”
Marie nodded. “Who wishes to begin the argument?”
While various women raised their hands to debate, Eleanor leaned back against the trunk of a leafy elm. The question under discussion had been ongoing for several hours, ended for the noon meal, and then resumed. Eleanor, of two minds about the subject, did not wish to give the final decision.
Sometimes, like on this day, the questions were simply debated; often they were put forth in a manner suitable for a tenson, such as “Which are the greater, the joys or the sorrows of love?” The tenson was then debated in song between two troubadours, each composing a different verse and singing them alternately. Only the previous sennight Bertran de Born and Richard had debated a provocative subject: “Who loves the more, ladies or men?” Back and forth they went in song, Bertran arguing in one verse that ladies loved the more and Richard countering the argument in another verse. After consultation with her ladies, Eleanor had ruled that the love of women and of men cannot be compared any more than matters spiritual can be compared to those temporal, or the juice of the grape to the oil of the olive. Therefore no judgment could be given. A round of applause had greeted this verdict.
“Our duchess rivals Solomon himself in her wisdom,” someone had cried out. Eleanor smiled at the memory.
“May I join you?” Ermengarde of Narbonne sauntered over to the bench. Eleanor nodded and the countess seated herself. After a moment she asked softly, “Do you know if anyone has captured that young knight’s heart?”
Startled, Eleanor followed the countess’s speculative gaze as it rested on the tall figure of William Marshal, who had just arrived with her son, Harry. They must have been practicing at the quintain, for both wore mail and carried helms under their arms.
“I really cannot say for certain, but I doubt it. As he is Harry’s tutor-at-arms, he spends most of his time in tourneys and the like. Frivolous pursuits do not interest him.” Eleanor lowered her voice. “A bit of dalliance would do him a power of good, but I fear you may find William disappointing. Far too serious, in my opinion, although endowed with many other admirable qualities.”
“So I have observed.” Eleanor was amused to see that the countess was now quite openly admiring—ogling was perhaps more apt—William’s large enfourchure, clearly visible in the chain mail. “No, no, one would not be disappointed in this gallant knight. Equipped as he is with the proper lance, he can be taught how to use it.” Ermengarde slid her cool green gaze in Eleanor’s direction. “Such an unpleasant surprise when a man reveals his—shortcomings.”
Eleanor burst out laughing.
“I take it that you yourself, madam, have no interest?”
Taken aback by the question, Eleanor shook her head, wishing for a moment that she had such an interest. How much easier life would be. Her face must have revealed more than she intended, for the countess’s discerning gaze searched hers in growing amazement. “Sweet Saint Radegonde, do you mean to say . . . is it possible that you still love your wretched husband? And have remained faithful to him?”
Unexpected tears sprang to Eleanor’s eyes, and when she attempted a light-hearted response a lump clogged her throat. Ermengarde reached out to grasp her hand.
“Oh my dear, as bad as all that? I had no idea.” Her eyes radiated sympathy. “He is not worth your tears. None of them are.”
Embarrassed at her display of emotion, Eleanor swallowed and gave the countess a tremulous smile. Ermengarde pressed her hand then withdrew it as they were interrupted by Marie’s voice.
“Well, Maman, do you wish to be consulted on my verdict?”
“Decide what you wish,” Eleanor managed to say in what she hoped was a natural tone.
“Then here is my decree.” Marie moved away and held up her hand. “Can true love exist between married people? It is evident that lovers grant everything mutually, gratuitously, and without constraint. Married people are required to submit to one another’s wishes with or without volition. We therefore declare and affirm, as the opinion of this court, that true love cannot exercise its power on married people.”
There was much applause and cries of approval. A few moments later, Marguerite, Alais, and Joanna ran over to the stone bench. Composed now, Eleanor gave the girls an indulgent smile.
“Enjoying yourselves, mes petites?”
“Of course they are,” said Ermengarde. “These past months have been a wonderful experience for all of us. You can take great pride, madam, in what you and Marie have created with your courts of love.”
“Cousin Isabella says it is like being in the Garden of Eden before the fall,” Joanna said with a giggle.
“It is, rather. Come here, ma jolie, your chaplet is askew.” Eleanor pulled Alais down beside her and straightened the circlet of yellow blooms that rested on her crown of dark braids. “There.”
The countess of Narbonne gave a mock shudder. “Perhaps I am superstitious. But if you have the Garden, there is always the threat of the serpent.”
“Not in this garden, madam.” Or if there was one, he was far away in Ireland. Eleanor put an arm around the French princess and kissed her warm olive-skinned cheek. “Isn’t that so, ma petite?”
Alais responded with a dazzling smile.
Alais was so bored she wanted to scream.
It was the sixteenth day of November, the Feast of Saint Margaret of Scotland, a remote queen Alais had never heard of. But since she was also the great-great-great grandmother of the Plantagenet sons, Eleanor honored her in Poitou just as they did in England. That morning a special Mass had been sung in the saint’s honor but later in the afternoon a court of love was being held as usual. This would never have occurred at the French court, where a saint’s feast would be followed by fasts and prayers throughout the day. But then nothing that happened in Poitiers would ever have happened in Paris.
Alais strolled aimlessly around the great hall of the Maubergeonne Tower, packed as usual with what Marie called the “flower of the nobility of Aquitaine, Champagne, and Anjou.” Ladies, knights, troubadours, lords—the guests were grouped about the hall in a colorful pattern of scarlet, green, purple, and azure blue. Jeweled daggers and sword hilts, gem-studded rings, and gold and silver brooches caught the light from torches blazing in the wall sconces. Here and there Alais glimpsed scholars dressed in somber brown, a few tonsured monks in thonged sandals, even a black-robed prelate, his dimpled face wreathed in smiles. She was almost shocked to see them at this frivolous gathering. At least the French would think it frivolous. Alais herself found it all a bit boring. Musicians played in one corner, although the sound of pipe and viol was difficult to hear against the buzz of conversation, the ripple of constant laughter.
Amongst the crowd, Alais recognized the countesses of Flanders and Narbonne, along with Emma of Anjou, and the recently arrived countess of Dia, one of the very few female troubadours who attended Eleanor’s court. The women had their heads together and as she passed by, Alais heard snippets of their conversation.
“. . . the viscountess offered him her favors after he wrote a charming joi d’amor dedicated to her, but he thought it prudent to refuse because he had known her mother—in the biblical sense—before the viscountess was born, and there was always the possibility that he might be her father.”
Peals of laughter followed.
“Ma jolie, you grow more lovely each time I see you,” the countess of Narbonne called to Alais, who waved and continued walking.
As she passed by a group of troubadours and ladies in animated discussion, she overheard “. . . he is beside himself but there is little he can do because of Rule Thirty-One of the code: ‘Nothing forbids a woman to be loved by two men.’”
“Of course! If he takes action he risks being cited before a court of love as a transgressor against the rules of love. What a quandary . . .”
Alais moved on. Love, love, love. Sweet Marie, did no one here ever tire of talking about it, debating over it, or composing songs about the subject? After months of hearing them, she knew most of the rules as well as catechism: love could be won only at the price of infinite patience; it must involve cajolery, rebuffs, teasing, and in the end, complete surrender. On and on. Of course, new rules were being added or old ones removed all the time so it was hard to keep up. Since she had never experienced love, she wondered if it was worth all the boring stages one had to go through first. Soon she would be fourteen and then she intended to find out for herself what all the fuss was about.
On her right she glimpsed the duchess Eleanor’s sons: Harry, with Marguerite fastened like a limpet to his arm; next to him Geoffrey, soon to be made count of Brittany, whose little bride-to-be, Constance, was looking up at him with adoring eyes. Behind Geoffrey stood Richard, then the towering figure of William Marshal. Surrounding them was the usual group of hangers-on who trailed after the young king. With their slashed cloaks, flowing sleeves, curled perfumed hair, and pointed shoes, these youthful courtiers looked like peacocks preening their feathers.
As Alais approached, she could see Harry make a sweeping gesture with his hand, describing some event: “Then his lance was shivered in the mêlée and he had to draw his sword, but that’s William’s favorite weapon, so it didn’t matter. His opponent fell out of the saddle, and caught one foot in the stirrup.”
She assumed they must be talking about the tournament held in Poitiers last month at which all the finest jousters from as far afield as Flanders came to compete for the privilege of trying to unseat the reigning champion, William Marshal. Alais wasn’t sure which she found more monotonous, the courts of love or tourneys.
Marguerite rushed over to embrace her. It was like being crushed in a net of butterflies and Alais tried to free herself. She supposed that Marguerite looked extremely pretty today. The general view was that she was a beauty. Privately, Alais thought that her sister’s huge blue eyes surmounted by a flaxen arc of eyebrow gave her a look of constant surprise, her pale skin lacked color, and her hair was so fine it resembled cobwebs. She was the image of their father. Marguerite was not the least bit clever; she simpered and blushed with such regularity it set Alais’s teeth on edge. Everything made her cry—a dead bird in the garden, a troubadour’s song of unrequited love, Harry and his brothers arguing, which they did all the time. What kind of a queen would she make? Nothing like Queen Eleanor, or even Alais’s hated stepmother, Adela of France, who at least had a mind of her own and more than two words to say for herself.
A little voice in Alais’s ear reminded her, not for the first time, that life was unfair: She was the one who should be queen, and only an accident of birth was responsible for the fact that she was not going to rule a kingdom. Had she been born first, and Marguerite second, then she would be married to Harry, to eventually become queen of England, duchess of Normandy, and countess of Anjou. The fact that she would one day marry Richard and become merely duchess of Aquitaine was simply not comparable.
A year or so earlier, when her sister had turned fifteen and started her courses—later than most maidens—the marriage with Harry had finally been consummated. When Alais asked Marguerite what it was like to bed the young king, she had blushed furiously. “Really, Sister, such things are simply not to be discussed.” With difficulty, Alais had refrained from shaking the facts out of her.
Alais’s discontented gaze shifted to her future husband, Richard, recently turned sixteen years of age. Everyone was always exclaiming over his beauty, his gifts at the gai saber, and his prowess at the jousts. If she had heard it once she had heard it a hundred times: How blessed you are to have such a man. Blessed? Certainly the qualities people mentioned were of no benefit to her. Richard did not like her and made no effort to hide his feelings.
Of course, she did not like him, either, so in the beginning it had not mattered. When she first came to Poitou, Alais had been more interested in her new life, heaven compared to her years in the Cité Palace. At the Parisian court she was generally viewed with suspicion and dislike, whether due to her mother’s death or her dark hair and olive skin, or some other cause, she had never discovered. In Poitiers, by contrast, everyone openly admired her looks, praised her cleverness and skill at lessons, laughed at her pert tongue, and seemed truly to like her. Eleanor most of all. It was this love and interest that had made it easier to push Richard’s indifference to the back of her mind. Alais had once overheard Eleanor say that she wished her own daughters were as lively and interesting as Alais. Of course, that was before Marie had come to Poitiers.
Ever since Alais’s half sister had arrived the previous May, Eleanor’s attention was almost entirely wrapped up in her eldest daughter and the courts of love. Suddenly Richard’s neglect became noticeable. As she observed the growing bond between Eleanor and Marie, she was starting to resent Eleanor as well.
“What do the two of you find to talk about, madam?” Alais had impulsively asked Eleanor one day.
“Ma petite, we have twenty years of catching up to do,” Eleanor replied. “A lifetime, nay, several lifetimes would hardly be enough.”
It wasn’t that Eleanor ignored her. On the contrary, she was as warm and loving as ever, as was Marie, eager to include Alais in all the current activities. In truth, except for Richard, Alais could find no real fault with anyone in Poitiers, which made it even more difficult to understand why she felt so discontented with everything. She had made the mistake of confiding her feelings to her confessor, not a Poitevin but an elderly priest who had been part of her French entourage. He had chastised her soundly for the sin of pride, told her she was an ungrateful willful child and that Satan was obviously at work. He had given her a penance of thirty Aves, to be said morning and night, and put her on a bread-and-water fast for three days. Which she had ignored.
As she gazed around the hall, Alais wondered if life in the ducal palace were not partly to blame for how she felt. There was nothing to excite her; she felt wrapped in a velvet cocoon, and it was starting to suffocate her. Even the dangerous atmosphere at the French court was more of a challenge. A servitor passed around a tray of goblets filled with a new wine from Champagne. Alais took one and sipped it then made a face. Sour! She put it back on the wooden tray.
“You look lovely, Princess. Scarlet suits you.” Alais turned sharply.
The troubadour-knight, Sir Bertran de Born, had come up behind her, along with two other troubadours. He was the reigning favorite at the Poitevin court, and a close companion to Harry, Richard, and Geoffrey. Alais, who had taken trouble with her appearance, was pleased he had noticed. Under a light cloak of scarlet sendal she wore a yellow tunic; the cuffs of her gown were lined with scarlet silk and embroidered with gold and silver thread. A gold chaplet encircled her dark hair, which she had left loose and pulled back from her face because she thought it made her look older.
“Thank you,” she replied. “Have you been gone, Sir Bertran? I have not seen you about lately.”
“I only just returned from my lands in Hautefort. I am flattered you were aware of my absence, Princess.”
Alais flushed. De Born, who was about Harry’s age or perhaps a bit older, was very comely, with a way of looking at her that set her pulse to racing. Marguerite had told her he was nobly born, lord of a castle in the diocese of Périgueux and had a thousand men under his banner. He was also something of a troublemaker. Someone else had once remarked that Bertran de Born was a good knight, a good warrior, and a good troubadour, but outstanding when it came to serving the ladies.
Short and muscular, with broad shoulders and olive skin, he wore a Phrygian blue cap perched on his crisp blue-black hair. Tight-fitting blue hose revealed a shapely calf; a short crimson tunic matched a cloak of the same color. Gold rings adorned long slender fingers and a lute hung over one shoulder. His gaze was admiring as he examined Alais’s face and passed down her body, lingering on her bosom, which in the last few months had suddenly blossomed.
“And no longer a child, I see, but a most fetching young maid.” He made an elaborate gesture, like a circle drawn in the air. “Hair like a raven’s wing, teeth like pearls, eyelashes black as soot . . .”
His companions tittered. Was he teasing her? Alais felt the blood rush to her face; she could think of no ready retort. Bertran’s smoldering eyes, dark as coal, piercing as a falcon’s, were at odds at with his courtly manner, bewitching smile, and affected way of speaking like a mummer. The result was disconcerting.
The troubadour turned to Richard, who had just joined them. “Your future bride looks almost ready to be plucked from the tree. What a most fortunate prince you are, my friend.”
De Born bent to kiss her hand then, throwing his cloak back from his shoulders, strutted away like a proud peacock. Richard gave her a polite nod and followed him. A bit breathless after this unexpected encounter, Alais strolled out of the hall and into an antechamber, where she stopped short. A group of graybeards surrounded Eleanor’s kinsman, Ralph de Faye—imposing in blue velvet and matching cap—who was holding forth in his usual blustery manner.
“How long must we continue to bow our heads to the Plantagenet?” It sounded like Eleanor’s uncle Ralph was up to his usual plots and mischief-making.
“So long as he remains duke of Aquitaine,” another lord pointed out. “We’re his vassals and have sworn allegiance to him.”
“Our true allegiance is to Duchess Eleanor and our future duke, Richard, not to her cursed Angevin husband.” Ralph raised his arm in a threatening gesture.
There was a chorus of agreement. They hadn’t even noticed her, Alais thought, having apparently no regard for who might overhear them. So different from the French court, where a fragment of a sentence, the flutter of a hand, a veiled look had to convey what one meant.
“If only the king of France would declare war on the Angevin tyrant . . .” muttered a doddering noble, who had to be supported by his equerry.
“The times are propitious,” added Ralph, rubbing his hands together. “Duke Henry is in Ireland still. If we strike now, with Louis’s help we will have all Aquitaine behind us and the duchy will belong only to the duchess.”
This sort of talk was much more interesting than love or tourneys, but after several years in Poitiers, Alais was convinced that was all it was: talk. Even Eleanor, far more circumspect, had intimated her hope that Aquitaine might one day be free of “foreign ties.” After the murder of Thomas Becket, the Poitevins had expected King Henry to be excommunicated or, at the very least, struck down from on high. But neither had occurred—thus far. Eleanor’s uncle talked of a gross miscarriage of justice and hinted at papal involvement.
Alais left the antechamber and went back into the hall. She walked toward the far end, where, in the center of the dais, Eleanor sat in a carved wooden chair draped with scarlet and gold. Behind her stood her chaplain, Peter of Blois. Marie and several ladies sat next to her and, as usual, Eleanor and Marie were engaged in lively conversation broken by frequent bursts of laughter. Regal, authoritative, and beautiful in cloth of silver and purple, Eleanor looked exactly like a queen or duchess should. As always, Alais’s heart beat a little faster; the hall grew brighter, and a quiver of excitement raced through her. No matter how many times she had seen Eleanor sit in majesty, Alais was still dazzled, still caught up in the glow of the duchess’s radiance. She reminded herself that one day this would be her throne, her hall, her ducal palace. Would she ever be able to stand in Eleanor’s elegant shoes? Command the hearts and spirits of her subjects as Eleanor did? Far better than Marguerite ever would in England or Normandy, she was sure.
The seneschal suddenly brushed past her and ran up to the dais. Alais could not hear what he said to Eleanor, but the smile was wiped from her face and two spots of color appeared on her cheekbones. She stood up and, leaving the dais, swept through the crowd, which parted to let her pass, the chaplain and seneschal at her heels. Curious, Alais and others followed. The duchess left the hall and entered an antechamber with Peter of Blois.
Several moments later Eleanor’s voice could be heard raised in indignation and protest. “I will certainly not allow you access to my accounts. What am I, a child or a halfwit, that the king must go over my expenditures and check the revenues from my provinces, as if I have not done so hundreds of times before now?”
The reply was inaudible. Conversation and music continued, but Alais sensed that everyone in the hall was straining to listen.
“I said no, and I mean no. It is a demeaning request and I will not accede to it. How dare he! Such humiliation is insupportable!“ Her voice grew even louder. Again the reply was inaudible. “Then let him come himself and go over my records. I will not give an account of every coin I spend. This is my duchy, and was mine before I ever set eyes on Henry Plantagenet.”
A moment later Eleanor stalked back into the hall, her face pale, her mouth set, her body trembling with anger. She suddenly turned and said in a voice that carried to the end of the hall, “Instead of bleeding my duchy dry in this fruitless conquest of Ireland, let King Henry put his own house in order!”
There was a rising murmur of sympathy as she swept back to the dais. Alais saw Bertran de Born unsling his lute from one shoulder, strut over to the dais, and perch at its foot. A moment later Eleanor’s secretary, Peter of Blois, entered the hall and stopped beside Alais with a sudden exclamation as Bertran strummed a few insistent chords. Silence descended upon the hall. The troubadour’s lilting voice rose and fell, commanding the full attention of those present as he sang of the fair duchy of Aquitaine and its most gracious duchess who was greatly beloved of her subjects. She, like them, only wanted their land to be independent; what need had they of tyrants from across the sea, foreign invaders who had no love for Aquitaine but only wanted to milk the country of its wealth? There was such sadness in the passionate melody, so much yearning in the lyrics . . . Alais almost wanted to weep. She glanced at Eleanor whose eyes glistened with unshed tears as she listened intently.
“Holy Christ, what does that meddling troubadour think he is doing?” Peter of Blois’s voice was filled with alarm. “He has a mind to mischief and stirs up feelings best left alone.”
Alais did not know whether he addressed her or just spoke his thoughts aloud. She heard the crowd of onlookers draw in its breath, almost as one person. No one had missed Bertran’s meaning. But the secretary was mistaken. The mischief was already at work, the feelings already there. The troubadour had merely given them voice.